


Wouldn't Say No

by Letterblade



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: A Touch of Glove Kink, Consensual Non-Consent, Consentacles, F/F, Handwaved Power Control for Hapi, Marianne Gets Ravished, Marianne has reading glasses because I say so and it's cute, Multiple Orgasms, Other, Overstimulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:26:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26072632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letterblade/pseuds/Letterblade
Summary: Marianne gulps an even deeper breath, and Hilda can see the tips of her ears pink. “Is…is this about that time you…”“Coaxed you into admitting your deepest darkest fantasies because you’re so good for me?”Hilda arranges a surprise for her dearest baby girl.
Relationships: Marianne von Edmund/Hilda Valentine Goneril, Marianne von Edmund/Hilda Valentine Goneril/Tentacle Creature
Comments: 2
Kudos: 95





	Wouldn't Say No

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brooklynapple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brooklynapple/gifts).



> So a) the delightful Quorn is having her birthday, b) somebody on my twitter timeline said Consentacle Sunday, and c) I happened to look at [this](https://3houseskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1608.html?thread=2817096#cmt2817096) kinkmeme prompt about Hilda and Marianne doing CNC on my list of saved kinkmeme prompts, and between those three things, oops a fic. Thanks to [mllelaurel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mllelaurel) for beta!

“Okay,” Hapi says, mouth twisting as she chews her lip. “I gotcha. I _should_ be able to make it obey you. Always a chance it’ll be a spicy boy, but we’ll know pretty quick, and we can always sic it on B if it misbehaves.”

“Baltie?” Hilda presses a hand over her mouth, fluttering her eyelashes. “Only if I get to watch.”

“I know, right,” Hapi drawls. “He can take it like a champ. You talked to Yuri-bird for rates, right?”

“Naturally,” Hilda says airily. The lord of the underground had driven a hard bargain—not surprising in the least—but even if he won’t admit it, that chunk of Goneril cash is going to feeding starving orphans around here or whatever, and anyway, it’s for Marianne, so it’s worth it. Anything for her precious girl.

“Okay. Gimme your hand, I need a bit of your blood.”

“Ewwww, really?” Hilda puts up all due protest, but allows Hapi to take her toll with a penknife. A scratch, really.

“No chance of it following you otherwise.” Hapi shrugs. “Least your crest will make it easier.” She dabs some of the blood on a string, loops that string loosely around Hilda’s wrist, and knots it. “Make sure that stays on you, and when you’re done, take it off, do _not_ cut it, and burn it. That’ll dismiss it. If you cut it or drop it, that won’t dismiss it, but it will be, uh, not tame anymore. Now close your eyes and think of tentacles.”

Hilda takes a deep breath, draws her gorgeous self up, closes her eyes, and thinks of tentacles. Not too slimy, mind you. Maybe nice colors, and like what if they had a velvety sort of texture like dicks? They could sparkle. No gross pond monster tentacles for _her_ Mari.

There’s a faint humming in the air, a musty smell as wild magic rises around her, and then Hapi sighs. It’s _weird_ hearing it this close. It feels like it’s rumbling through her skull, subliminal, even if it also sounds like just a normal sigh.

Silence.

Then something big shuffling close.

“Y’can open your eyes now,” Hapi says lazily, and lets go of her hand.

Hilda blinks up at their new guest. It’s—not a slimy pond monster, at least? Kind of black and seething, shimmering like a starry night, and a little hard to look at straight on, and it blobs and leans towards Hapi, sliding a few appendages around her legs in hungry greeting.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re cute,” Hapi says, and wipes her bloody hand over its—face? Ish? The part between the most eyes? “Listen to her, okay?” Her voice drops, a faint thrum of that same power. “Listen to her blood.”

Hilda feels like every hair on her body stands on end for one second, and then she tosses her head, and it’s fine again. “Here, kitty kitty,” she says.

The monster quivers. Blorps slightly from side to side. Skates the tip of a tentacle over her face, chest, belly. Not slimy, but a little damp. At least it doesn’t smell too bad. A bead of moisture at the tip—okay, yeah, self-lubricating will be convenient. There’s ridges on the underside, and ooh, that texture looks _nice_ …

Two tentacles wrap questioningly around Hilda’s thighs, and she pats one of them firmly. “Hold your horses. You’re going to be fucking somebody else for me, all right?”

It pauses. The tentacles unwrap, perhaps reluctantly.

“What a good boy,” Hilda chirps, patting it again. “Girl?”

“They don’t tend to care,” Hapi says, and gives her a lazy wave. “Have fun!”

* * *

Hilda is _perfectly_ capable of being sneaky when she needs to be. Claude would like to talk a big game about teaching her, but pff, all he taught _her_ was to lock up her porn better back at school. If she actually wanted him to not steal it. Which she didn’t. Anyway, sneaking, she’s great at it, and Ambrose—she’s decided the tentacle monster feels like an Ambrose—can sort of tuck himself a little sideways out of reality when she needs him to, and she can tuck the string under a wristband so she doesn’t risk dropping it, and Marianne doesn’t notice much when she’s deep in work anyway, so it’s really not hard to get up behind the Margravine von Edmund as she thumbs through paperwork, sighing and chewing on her lip, with those little reading glasses she’s started to wear for this perched at the very end of her cute little nose.

“Ooh, look, I found a pretty girl,” Hilda says with her very wickedest smile, and Marianne squeaks and drops her pen with a clatter. At least she misses the inkwell.

“Oh—Hilda, I, yes, hello—”

Her voice peters out on a breathy noise as Hilda slides a hand along the side of her throat in greeting, pressing herself right up against the back of her chair where she can’t see her. “Whatever shall I do with this lovely little morsel, all wrapped up in her paperwork?”

Marianne sucks in a deep breath, fumbling through a few different syllables before she manages, “Hil…da?”

“So innocent,” Hilda purrs, letting herself idly explore Marianne’s chest. “Ripe for the taking…”

Marianne gulps an even deeper breath, and Hilda can see the tips of her ears pink. “Is…is this about that time you…”

“Coaxed you into admitting your deepest darkest fantasies because you’re so good for me?”

“Oh goddess,” Marianne blurts. She’d been mortified at the time, poor thing. “Please don’t think you ever have to—”

Hilda snorts. “Hel _lo_ , have you even read any of my favorite trashy novels, it’s not like I don’t get the idea of being swept off your feet…” She unbuttons a top button, set in lace, with care, then teases a nail down that silk-soft strip of exposed skin. “Carried off by some mysterious stranger, sexy but dangerous…” Slides her hand down for a firm grope, and Marianne gasp-whimpers, candy-sweet. “All your clothes rucked aside, and you know you shouldn’t want it, and it’s happening so fast, and maybe you gasp out _stop, please_ as their hands slide over you—”

“N-no, that’s—please—”

Hilda has to bite back a whimper of her own, because that’s way, way hotter than she expected. “But they’re going to make you their plaything and there’s nothing you can do about it, is there? You have no choice but to take it—”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Marianne croaks, barely audible, and it rocks Hilda like a meteor. She almost _never_ swears, even now.

Hilda clutches her, hard, silk bodice and soft breast spilling between her fingers, then pries herself off just enough to circle her, shoving her heavy chair back from her desk.

“I-I-I really need to…to finish this…” Marianne manages. She’s wide-eyed, brilliantly flushed, hands white-knuckled on the lion’s-foot arms of her chair.

“Do you though?” Hilda shoves a knee between hers, leaning into her space, and opening another few buttons. “Mm, what a pretty present to unwrap…”

“No, this isn’t…” She squirms, a half-hearted shove at Hilda’s hand, and Hilda bats it aside, slides two fingers into her panting open mouth. She’s still wearing her gauntlets, and the leather on her tongue makes those stunning gray eyes go hazy. Even lost in the fantasy of being ravished, pleading-eyed and whimpering, Marianne opens for her like sweet water, tongue soft against her.

“You remember our signals, baby girl?” Hilda whispers, voice low and firm.

Marianne nods with one faint hum, squeezes her other hand.

“Good.” Hilda lets her smile turn wicked again. “Because I’ve got a surprise for you, pretty thing. Oh, you’re going to love it, no matter how much you try to escape. Ambrose,” she calls, throwing as much intent into her voice as she can, and Marianne squeaks in puzzlement.

“Ahnrohse?” she echoes, muffled by Hilda’s fingers.

“Hold her for me. Let’s get that pretty dress off her. She doesn’t need it anymore.”

Hilda honestly wasn’t sure Marianne’s eyes _could_ get any wider as Ambrose pours himself fully into reality. He surges, filling the office, darkening the light with his glittering depths, settling his bulk between Hilda and the desk. Tentacles slide out, feeling up Marianne’s arms, her skirt, and Hilda pulls her fingers out of her mouth and leans back a few inches to really, truly, savor her reactions. Shock. Awe. She quivers at his touch, makes one abortive attempt to pull an arm back before he loops a coil around her wrist.

“Oh, goddess,” she breathes, and jolts, and her little glasses drop off one ear, hang askew. Ambrose secures her other arm, spreading them wide, and her eyes glaze in raw arousal. She gasps as a few more tentacles slip under the hem of her long skirt, gives a faint wail as _something_ happens under there, blue silk rippling—probably squirming up her legs, she hasn’t given Ambrose the order to fuck her yet.

Hilda’s frozen in awe, she realizes, when Ambrose nudges a wedge of his bulk under her and picks her up, perched like a queen on her throne. Marianne’s trembling, wide eyes fixed on her, and Hilda reaches out to very gently run fingers over her cheek, pick her glasses off her face and set them aside.

Marianne nods, once, tiny and frantic, her voice caught in her throat.

Hilda feels her teeth bare in her smile, and picks another button loose on Marianne’s helpless, heaving bosom. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your dress, sweet thing. Just you.”

Marianne pants wordlessly for a moment, lips moving, and then says, very small and steady, “You can ruin my dress, please, Hilda, it’s all right.”

_Goddess I love you baby girl_ , Hilda wants to say, but that would rather break the mood, now wouldn’t it? “Well, in that case…” She takes a handful of lace—almost a shame, but she has had this one for a while now, isn’t she, it’s getting a little worn—and pulls. Little pearly buttons scatter. Marianne yelps, delicate arms straining in Ambrose’s grip as she tries to hide herself—

One black tentacle teases across exposed skin before Hilda even gives the command. It’s like Ambrose _knows_. Fuck, this kind of power could go to a girl’s head. She imagines a smear of that lubricant across Marianne’s clean fresh skin, soaking the edge of her undershift, and just like that, the tentacle pulses, and Marianne whines. “Get…g-get it off me…please…”

“Give us a kiss,” Hilda says, wicked, and follows that tentacle with her fingers, smearing the mess down, dipping into Marianne’s shift to find the deliciously soft swell of one breast. Her nipple’s hard-pebbled—goddess, she must be _dripping_ , Hilda thinks, she knows Marianne’s body, and she also knows exactly how much she can squeeze and twist for it to be just the right delicious ache to make her baby girl sing.

“No, no no no, please…” Marianne whines and begs, whimpering in shame with every singing moan Hilda wrings out of her by her nipples, squirming away from the tentacle caressing her lips like she isn’t going hazy-eyed every time it touches her. Hilda murmurs a dire warning to her friendly monster of a sofa as another appendage loops around Marianne’s neck, dragging over her fallen-aside collar, bracing the back of her skull to hold her head in place, unable to fight as Ambrose slips into her mouth, exploring inexorably with one velvety-ridged tip.

Thicker, Hilda thinks absentmindedly, and just like that, the tentacle swells, filling Marianne’s mouth and turning her gasp into a filthy moan. Hilda reaches out, teases her finger along Marianne’s lips, stretched wide, feels the softness of her cheek. “Good boy, Ambrose,” she murmurs, honey-sweet. “See, pretty girl? We can take every single inch of you.” There’s nothing in the world that could hold back Marianne’s moan at that, and she tenderly strokes a wisp of blue off her crumpled, pleading brow. “We’re going to fill you up and wring you out, and there’s nothing, nothing you can do to stop us.”

Hilda doesn’t realize Marianne’s rising, lifted like a feather in Ambrose’s grip, until she hears an odd _plap_ and looks down to see one of Marianne’s little house slippers fallen to the carpet. She laughs, rucks more fabric out of the way to bare those perfect tits, and Marianne whines, wiggles for freedom, gets nowhere. Hilda leans in, trusting Ambrose to hold her up, and buries her face, losing herself in silk-soft skin, so-sensitive nipples. Ambrose, so responsive to her whims, thins that tendril again, letting Marianne’s hapless noises tumble out, her garbled pleas for mercy as Hilda torments her nipples. Two narrow tentacles wrap snug around Marianne’s chest, circling her breasts, squeezing. More slide into the fast-ripping remnants of bodice and shift.

Marianne’s a quivering mess, half-exposed and helpless in starry blank tentacles, and neither of them have even touched her pussy yet.

Hilda’s starting to wonder if she can sense Ambrose’s instincts in return, because there’s almost a question— _shall I?_ Not in so many words. _Let me_ , she thinks. _Just a little_. Because oh, watching Marianne fight that unyielding inhuman slide over her pussy is going to be a blast, but she _needs_ to feel how wet she is, she can’t not.

Ambrose does, at a thought, give Marianne something very nice for her nipples. Two tendrils, damp with slick, shift, inverting a little, forming cups. They latch. They _pulse_ —sucking, she’s pretty sure—and Marianne almost screams. They don’t stop.

“Poor girl,” Hilda coos, stroking her damp forehead. “It’s so much for you. You just want to get away, don’t you?” She tweaks the tip of one ear. “Look at you, still so done up. Let’s see…” She feels for Marianne’s hairpins, tugs a few out, pulls one of her twisted-up braids down to hang lopsided. “There.” She smears Ambrose’s goo across one cheek. _Really_ not her usual aesthetic, she loves Marianne all done up cute, but this—this isn’t the time for that. Not when she’d asked her _so_ nicely to ruin her dress. “You were so perfectly buttoned up when we found you, and now look at you.”

Marianne flushes, whimpers. The tentacles holding her arms slide down further, wrapping around her biceps, rumpling and staining her dress, leaving her even less room to squirm.

“But there’s still so much in the way,” Hilda says, pouting, and catches a handful of Marianne’s long skirt. Ambrose adjusts, smooth and easy, tipping her back just a little—not all the way, she can still see her pretty face, her chest heaving as Ambrose squeezes and sucks her tits—but enough. Legs hiked up, spread, skirt riding aside. Ambrose, _so_ thoughtful, pulls her arms behind her back to make her boobs stick out more, and Hilda gives them a friendly squeeze before sliding a hand up Marianne’s calf.

“Stop,” Marianne gasps, and for a moment Hilda’s hand freezes, reflexive, but no, it’s not the signal, is it? “No, please stop, don’t—y-you can’t, I shouldn’t, I’m not allowed to—”

“Oh, you silly thing,” Hilda says, laughing. “You really think I care what you’re _allowed_?”

It hits her almost physically, Hilda can see it, hear the little noise of raw desire. Her hips buck in Ambrose’s grip, tentacles wrapped snug around her bare knees.

There’s a tiny hole in her skirt, Hilda realizes. It must have caught on something. Would be hard to rip fabric like this otherwise, but with that—she digs in a nail, twists with a popping of threads, and gets a good grip in both hands.

“No, please—please don’t—” She struggles weakly as Hilda starts to tear. Tendrils dip under the ruffles at the cuffs of her short drawers. Hilda rips up the full length of her skirt, silk parting with a soft _zip_ of ripped threads under her hands, and thinks idly of gathering up the scraps, making her a little headpiece, maybe a choker, something that doesn’t cover anything at all. Marianne’s struggles dislodge her other slipper, and it flies off to land somewhere on her desk, and Hilda yanks the useless strips of her skirt aside and convinces Ambrose to let go of her ankles long enough so she can pull off her socks.

Marianne’s bare toes curl, kicking with oversensitized need, as Hilda surveys her handiwork smugly.

Ambrose slides tendrils further up Marianne’s thighs, dark shadows under the white linen of her drawers, and then flexes, ripping them open and flicking the threads aside, baring her pretty, pink, _dripping_ pussy.

“Oh, look at you,” Hilda purrs, and draws one fingertip along her folds. Still gloved, leather dragging, because destroying clothing is the game today. Marianne tries so desperately to close her legs, but Ambrose has her thighs in a vise. Tries to squirm her hips—towards, anyway, anywhere—but Ambrose wraps around her waist, pins her in place in midair. Hilda spreads her lips, bares her hot unhooded clit to the air.

Ambrose, in delicately slow concert with Marianne’s chants of “no, no, anything but that, please no,” smears one dripping tendril up from behind, slick over her asshole.

“Oh, yes. Definitely that. You’re getting _everything_ , pretty thing.” Hilda runs a fingertip over her clit, slow and demanding, the way she _knows_ drives her mad, and Marianne’s moan around the little tentacle fucking her mouth is sheer pleasure.

Then she reaches for some random bit of Ambrose to give him a pet, and spreads open Marianne’s lips—goddess, the _smell_ of her, the sheen of arousal sliding out of her core—so that a tentacle can slide right in. Ambrose, bless him, takes it inexorably slow, until Marianne’s protests are worn out and he gives one hard sudden pulse, _deep._

“Saint Macuil’s dripping tits,” Hilda chokes at the wild pleasure in Marianne’s moan, and she reaches under her skirt, fumbles her own soaked underthings aside. “Do me too, big boy, I am going to _explode._ ”

Ambrose obligingly coils against her, one tentacle pouring in and filling her up perfectly. The texture’s lovely, a little like a human dick but with the ridges to make her eyes roll back, and it’s slick enough without being gross, and the little appendage that joins it to nudge and suckle on her clit knows _exactly_ what it’s doing. Hilda wills Ambrose away from her ass, because she, unlike her precious Mari, is going to need any semblance of a brain left when this is over—but Mari, of course, gets no such mercy. That slick tendril pulses, teases, pressing her open in increments until she’s fluttering, even as a sucker closes over her pretty little clit and the tentacle in her pussy pulses, twisting, swelling.

Ambrose does something against Hilda’s g-spot that she’s never even felt the like of before, and she feels a growl of punched-out pleasure being ripped from her throat, and neither of them are thinking anymore. Hilda isn’t entirely sure, for a moment, that she _isn’t_ one with whatever primal desire Ambrose is wrought of. _Want_ pounds through her. To fill Marianne to the brim, push her to her limits, no more teasing, no more holding back— _yes_ , she thinks, _yes_ , and Ambrose surges around them both—

Marianne starts wailing in pleasure against the rapidly thickening tentacle filling her mouth, and it doesn’t stop, she barely even breathes, until her first orgasm slams through her. Goddess, she almost never comes that quickly, nor that hard the first time, and Ambrose barely lets her recover before that cautiously narrow tentacle in her ass pulses, opening her in the wake of her orgasm, pushing deeper. Hilda digs nails into her bare thigh, clutches her ass—she hadn’t realized she was that close, oh yes, Marianne’s breasts are right there, and Ambrose even pulls off one swollen red nipple long enough to let her close her teeth around it, make her pretty girl moan, before the sucker-tentacle grabs for it again, pulsing hard enough that Hilda can see soft skin pucker around it.

Somewhere around there, Hilda’s orgasm hits her out of nowhere, and Ambrose works her through it, the aftershocks, and another one just for shits and giggles even as Marianne screams in bliss and quivers against her.

He’s spreading Marianne, Hilda realizes, when she can fully focus. She can’t see how deep he is—very fucking deep, she’s going to guess—but he’s got two tentacles wedged into her ass, three in her pussy, squirming around each other, and they’re not tiny ones. Hilda wonders dimly if she’d be able to fist her—one hand in each?—but wafts the thought aside. Ambrose has got her, Hilda can do her own thing later when she dismisses him, and Marianne is _gone_. Hilda’s never heard her scream quite like this, heedless, echoing even with the tentacle filling her mouth so thoroughly that her cheeks are bulging.

Hilda fumbles behind them both, squeezes Marianne’s hand.

Marianne squeezes back, kicks her feet, and Ambrose lets her move just a little, wrap her legs around Hilda’s hips and hold her close. Hilda leans in, wipes sweat off her forehead, watches her hazy, wild eyes. “Look at you, pretty thing. All those tentacles crammed into you.” The one in her mouth pulses, as if for punctuation, and her eyes water. “So wrecked. Oh, we’re not done with you yet, are we, Ambrose? You’ve still got more in you, don’t you, sweet thing? Even if your pretty tits are all sore and your little clit…mm, Ambrose, how much have you done for her clit?”

One of the mass of tentacles between Marianne’s legs pulses, and Hilda slides her fingers down to trace it. The sucker over her clit quivers, squirming faster and faster, and Marianne gasps. Thrashes hard in Ambrose’s unyielding grip. _Harder_ , Hilda thinks, wordless, because she knows the kind of hand cramp she can get when Marianne really gets going, the pressure she likes, and harder, harder—she can feel her baby girl ratcheting up to the edge, little cords standing up in her throat as she fights the pleasure, strains—cracks, gives in, and the orgasm takes her head to toe, spasming, a rattling scream.

And if she really wanted to push her, Hilda would dive back in, hit her g-spot—and so a different tentacle swells, pulses, squirms, and Marianne comes and comes like a thunderstorm. Chokes, once, on a scream, and Ambrose pulls out of her mouth immediately, tendril coiling soothing against her cheek as she gasps for air. “Ssshh, ssh, it’s okay, baby girl, we’ve got you,” Hilda murmurs, stroking her forehead, and Marianne turns her face into her hands, sweating, all pretense of protest gone, broken open. “You breathing okay?”

A vague nod. One hum.

“You got one more in you?”

A ragged gasp, and her eyes open, more than a little wild. “I…I don’t know if I can…goddess, I’m so full, Hilda, I’ve never…never felt anything like this…”

Hilda vaguely wills Ambrose away from Marianne’s tits, soothes them with her palm as Marianne whimpers. “Oh, your poor sore tits, don’t worry, we’ll take care of you. You’ve got more in you. I know you can do it. You’re such a good girl, you’re so brave, you’re so tough…”

Marianne pants, whines tiny protests that Ambrose heads off by sliding his tendril over her tongue—she sucks it, heedless, blindly affectionate.

_Fuck her_ , Hilda thinks.

Ambrose slides halfway out of her pussy, thrusts in so hard she rocks in his grip, breast bouncing in Hilda’s hand, and howls.

It’s fast from there, fast and hard—he’s thinned down just a little so he doesn’t hurt her—sometimes he’ll alternate, fucking pussy and ass in turn, but what really makes her howl is when he synchronizes, huge deep strokes that rock her in midair. She goes from thrashing and kicking to utterly limp, sagging with some faraway bliss on her face like she’s seeing the goddess—one, two more orgasms wrung out of her until Hilda and Ambrose both are sure she is utterly, completely, nerves-on-fire done.

Ambrose lowers them both to the carpet with infinite gentleness, nesting tentacles around them as Hilda wraps Marianne up in all the limbs she can.

“Oh goddess,” Marianne breathes, voice wrecked. “Hilda.” That’s all she can say, shaky on repeat, rocking against her, for a minute or two, before she manages to stir her arms, wrap them around Hilda in return, and bury her face under her chin. “Thank you. Thank you. Goddess, thank you.”

* * *

Hilda takes pretty much the rest of the evening fussing over Marianne—because, okay, yeah, she’d scared herself a little—with one break to let Ambrose make her come a few more times, because hello, that was nice, and Marianne’s got a blanket and tea and snacks and many many cuddles and is doing great. And watches her ride Ambrose’s obliging mass of tentacles with a strange soft wonder in her eyes.

“You are,” she says, just a little nervous, patting one of Ambrose’s thicker arms, “a very nice monster. Thank you.”

Ambrose settles around them, and Hilda realizes, eventually, as they return to cuddling, that he’s sleeping. Or something like. He does feel tired. She peeks under her wristband—still there after she took off her gloves—and wonders if the nearest candle will be enough to properly burn the string.

Although…

“Hey, Mari?” she murmurs into her brushed-out swirl of blue hair.

“Mm?”

“So. About Ambrose. You wanna talk to Hapi about keeping him?”

Marianne blinks up at her, a little startled, and then reaches out to run a hand gently along Ambrose’s…flank, head, something. “I…wouldn’t say no.”


End file.
